


No Whales in the Wasteland

by LizzieAddamsTookAnAxe



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe- Post Apocalypse, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Smut, Gen, Lovecraftian Outsider, Post-Apocalypse, clothing gorn?, post apocalyptic fashion porn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-11
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2019-03-30 01:43:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13939875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LizzieAddamsTookAnAxe/pseuds/LizzieAddamsTookAnAxe
Summary: Once, he was a warrior in the warhost of Jess Twelve-blades.Now, he is a road warrior with a righteous cause.ORThe Mad Max-style post apocalyptic Dishonored AU no one wanted.





	No Whales in the Wasteland

_A man must be treated well, or he must be anihilated._

_Survivable wrongs he will avenge, lethal ones he cannot._

-Nicollo Machiavelli (paraphrased)

 

_Revenge solves everything._

-Dishonored.

_______________________

 

_Once, I was a bodyguard._

She is glorious. Jess Twelve-blades, warrior-queen of the Wasteland; steel-armored and gimlet-eyed, surrounded by her war-thanes, before her road warriors on their bikes. Closer than her own shadow stands the Crow, long coat fluttering in the morning breeze, watching the other, hands on his sword, eyes narrowed. Trust is dead in the Wasteland, even among comrades. Who would betray her first? Lock? The Boils? Preacher?

_A protector, an advisor. A lover._

There are no soft beds in a war camp, but the warlady rates a pile of wolfang furs. Even if it were rags, the entwined lovers would find each other’s arms, scarred and hardened with battle-earned muscles, to be softer than finest Old-Times silk. The others smirk to each other, politely ignoring the muffled moans that rise into impassioned shrieks.

_A father._

The warlady’s daughter is barely ten; too young for battle. Safe behind the scrap-metal gates of Rustwall, she trains with crossbow and knife and sword, hoping one day to better her parents’ formidable example. Her mother taught her the ways of war, of tactics and strategy, of logistics and diplomacy.

Her father taught her to kill men.

_All that is gone, now. Gone like the rain and trees._

The warlady’s end does not come in battle. She sits in council with the Twelve around the fire, warming her bones, shaking off the night’s chill.

And then she lies dead, an assassin’s blade hilted in her throat, severing her spine, head lolling absurdly. They materialized out of shadow, like nothing seen before. Like something out of a nightmare.

Where were the guards? Throat-slit, blood wastefully drained away into ever-hungry sand.

Where were her council? By her side, hands free of blood, surprised as everyone else, and as innocent as sunshine.

And where was the Crow? Drugged beyond consciousness, sleeping off fumes he swore he never took. But what witchcraft can rob a warrior of wit and senses like that? No, surely he was simply too ashamed to confess the weakness that robbed his lover of life.

_There’s no redemption for a failed bodyguard. No brothers or sisters for the weak._

The Twelve, now Eleven, stand in a circle around the shackled Crow. His head is bowed, and he weeps bitter tears, as free and unashamed as a baby. One by one, with a cruel click of their heels, they turn their backs in the ancient ritual. Discommendation. Outlawry.

Exile.

_Now I am a road warrior. An outlaw with a righteous cause._

A hood is draped over sweating brow.

Goggles hide the staring, deadened eyes. A respirator, the unsmiling mouth.

A sword slides home into a worn scabbard. Two knives sheathed in the small of the back. A small crossbow, spanned with one hand, quarrel ready to sing death, sits in a holster opposite the sword.

On the back of the left hand, a spiked glyph glows briefly with a light whose shade and tone are unnameable, before dimming. Fingerless gloves cover the twisting symbol, hiding it from sight.

The hands turn the ignition. The battered bike roars to life. The road beckons.

_My name is Corvo._

_My world is fire and blood._

_And I am coming._

_Expect me._

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, the ritual of Discommendation described is taken from TNG. Klingons would LOVE the wasteland.
> 
> My internet's too slow, and AOOOs tagging system too clunky, to tag everything right now.


End file.
